


Change of Engagement

by chiswickflo



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2486918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiswickflo/pseuds/chiswickflo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The modern University Fencing Soc AU no-one asked for! Drunken shenanigans, Beyoncé, misunderstandings, and duelling hateboners! Class warfare, alcohol theft, regrettable Freshers' Week hook-ups, Lambrini, and all the other things that make the UK university system great!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change of Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, and all the worse for it.

Three bars back, Aramis and Constance stole a very expensive bottle of champagne from some coked-up rahs who’d catcalled Constance when she went to the bar. This, they’d agreed, giggling madly as they ran away, was probably a bad idea, made worse by the realisation that they’d have to dispose of it before they reached the next bar. Hiding in the shadows of a nearby doorway, they’d necked it as fast as possible while d’Artagnan stood by, keeping watch for angry, Armand de Brignac-deprived economics students and making faint noises of concern. They’d ignored him in favour of demolishing as much purloined alcohol as possible without chucking, and both of them remain proudly vomit-free, although Constance had had a shaky moment when they’d passed a kebab shop. All of which means that their dancing, if they can even call it that without cackling, is pretty fucking dodgy, and involves a certain amount of mutual propping each other up while Beyoncé encourages someone to give mama some sugar. It's made exponentially funnier by the fact that they're still wearing the wreckage of their formal wear as they grind against each other, pouting seductively, and giggling when their own performance gets a little too ridiculous. Aramis fucking loves Fencing Soc and the inevitable carnage of their end-of-term formal dinner. 

Their night’s celebrations have been made even better by the fact that they managed to trounce the fencing team from the other university in the city, earlier that week, nearly all of them winning their individual matches, and Treville has managed to orchestrate their celebratory dinner and pub crawl in such a way that they run into the defeated team's pub crawl as often as possible for the purposes of subtle public gloating. And possibly also to cultivate the hate-boners he and the opposition’s Soc president, Richelieu, have going for each other. Aramis does not judge; the first thing he did in Fresher's Week was Jussac, just because he took an instant dislike to his stupid, pretty, douchey face. And because he didn’t meet Porthos until two days later at which point Aramis realised that they were destined to fall in love, get married and have tiny, sword-wielding babies. Porthos is not yet aware of his fate – three kids, two dogs, a mortgage and so much sex – because, surprising even himself, Aramis is playing the long game here. He is in it to win it. He just has to get Porthos to realise there’s even a game in play. 

Porthos - stupid, pretty, lovely, Jesus Christ look at his shoulders look at his extension in the ballestra, ugh - is over in the corner with Charon and Flea, laughing about something. 

‘Looking for your boyfriend?’ Constance shouts into his ear as they keep dancing. 

‘He's not my boyfriend,’ says Aramis, defensively. 

‘Hah!’ crows Constance as she hikes her leg over Aramis' hip and licks her lips at him ostentatiously. ‘Don't even try telling me you don't want to get all up on that, and get married and have lots of little sword-wielding babies.’ 

‘No,’ says Aramis. ‘I- What? Who told you?’ 

‘You did, you dick,’ says Constance unsympathetically, ‘Last week when you got suuuuuuper drunk on Lambrini, you told everyone about your predestined love with Porthos and how you just want to bite his shoulders.’

‘Noooooo,’ says Aramis, horrified, before remembering to make a face of exaggerated and savage desire and swivelling his hips. ‘Was Porthos there? Did he hear anything?’ 

‘He wasn't with us, no,’ shouts Constance over the music, and then just when Aramis is about to relax, she adds evilly, ‘Although you did state your intention to, and I quote, have it out with him and then wobbled off to his room to declare yourself.’

‘What?’ howls Aramis, and thank God they're in one of the cheapest, loudest bars in the city on a dancefloor full of drunk people. ‘What? Why would I do that? Oh my God, what did I do? Is that why he's been so stand-offish since then?’ 

‘I don't know,’ says Constance. ‘Can't you remember? You were also declaring that your only other true love was bacon sandwiches and since we found you asleep in the kitchen with your face welded to a packet of Danepak and neither you nor Porthos mentioned anything, we assumed you got sidetracked before you could find him.’ 

‘Why didn't you stop me?’ Aramis hisses. ‘You are the worst friend ever.’ 

‘Well, I would have,’ says Constance, ‘but you'd also seen fit to inform d'Artagnan and Athos that I wanted to get in between them like the bacon in the aforementioned sandwich so I was a little preoccupied being paralysed with horror and mortification.’ 

‘Oh my God,’ says Aramis weakly. 

‘Yes,’ says Constance. ‘My thoughts exactly.’ 

‘Oh my God, _I_ am the worst friend ever,’ Aramis realises. 

‘Pretty much,’ says Constance. ‘But fortunately for you, I am a forgiving soul and they were so drunk they don't remember anything either.’ She swallows, and says bravely, ‘It's fine, anyway. It would never have worked. And they deserve to be happy together. And I _have_ a boyfriend.’ 

‘Yeah, but he's a dick,’ says Aramis thoughtlessly, and then feels even worse. Bonacieux _is_ a total cockwomble and Constance _does_ deserve better but they’d lost d'Artagnan and Athos in the last bar to what seemed like an even more intense conversation than usual. When last seen, Athos had been looking down at the table as he confessed something and d'Artagnan had been staring at him like he’d been poleaxed but couldn’t be happier about it. Eventually, the rest of the Soc had grown tired of watching them hash out their thorny relationship issues: the worst breakup ever and chronic guilt issues on Athos’ side, a tendency to fall in love faster than a Disney Princess and with about as much wide-eyed exuberance on d’Artagnan’s. So, Treville had rolled his eyes and texted d'Artagnan the sketchy pub crawl schedule on the off chance that they don’t cement their new relationship status by going back to the halls to fuck, and the rest of them had headed out to complete their victory tour of every student bar and dodgy pub in town. Aramis stops dancing and looks into Constance's eyes so she'll know how serious he is when he says, ‘I am sorry. I was a dick to you and you deserve so much. You deserve everything. You are so awesome and I love you and that is only like four per cent the drink talking.’ 

Constance thumps him in the arm but she's laughing as she says, ‘Four per cent? None of this awesomeness is down to the drink; it's all me, all of the time, bucko. And I think I'm going to break up with Bonacieux anyway, regardless of my inconvenient feelings for those stupid, gorgeous boys. He _is_ a dick,’ she finishes decisively. ‘He didn't even come to see my match today. He laughs every time I say piste, and no matter how many times I explain it to him he doesn’t understand right of way. We have to break up.’ 

‘Yay!’ cheers Aramis and drags her to the bar for shots. He's just finished shouting his order over the counter when a heavy arm falls across his shoulders and he turns his head to see Porthos smiling at him for the first time in days, thank God, his face close to his and his breath heavy with alcohol. Porthos has been off with him for days, not even sitting next to him at tonight’s dinner when normally they're never more than an arms-length from each other, and the sudden distance had stung somewhere under his breastbone. Aramis, giddy with relief and an inadvisable amount and variety of alcohol, grins back at Porthos, who says, ‘Drink up, sweethearts, Treville wants us oscar mike in five.’ 

‘Where are we going?’ hiccups Constance. 

‘Karaoke bar, apparently,’ says Porthos, snatching up one of the Jägermeisters when it arrives and downing it. Aramis is enthralled by the closeness of the strong exposed line of Porthos' throat and jaw, rough with close cropped beard, and only snaps out of his reverie when Constance gives him a nudge. 

‘Singing?’ he says dubiously. 

‘Singing,’ confirms Porthos. ‘And alcohol, and apparently Richelieu's been seen in there with his co-captain. Three guesses which Treville's most invested in.’ 

‘Ugh,’ says Aramis and risks slinging his own arm round Porthos' waist, fingers curling into his hip. ‘Why can't they just bone and get it out of their systems?’ 

Beneath his hand, Porthos stiffens before moving carefully away and saying, in an odd tone of voice, ‘Well, not everyone's as much of a slag as you, mate. Some people have actual feelings.’

‘What the hell, Porthos.’ Even to himself, he sounds breathy and shaken, but in fairness, he sounded like this the last time he was punched in the stomach. He can’t let go of Porthos fast enough, stumbling backwards to give them both a little distance, a little perspective. 

‘What,’ says Constance, more shrilly, ‘the everloving fuck. Why would you say that to Aramis? What the fuck is wrong with you?’ 

‘I don't know, Constance,’ Porthos says. ‘What _is_ wrong with me? Why don't you ask Aramis here?’ and he storms away from them, shouldering through the crowds, his back rigid with anger. 

‘What,’ and Aramis is appalled to hear his voice crack but fucking hell, 'what just happened?' 

‘I don't know.’ says Constance furiously, ‘but I'm going to find out, don't you- Oh, no. No, no, no, sweetheart, don't cry.' She balls up her good pashmina and dabs gently at Aramis' face with it. ‘You know he didn't mean it; he doesn't even believe it, not really.’ 

‘Didn't mean what?’ says Athos from behind them, and oh good, what Aramis really needed for his abject humiliation was more of an audience, an audience moreover that appears to be newly loved up. Their errant friends are wound around each other, d'Artagnan beaming widely and Athos with a cautious but genuine smile curling his normally grim mouth. 

‘Porthos just called Aramis a slut,’ Constance says angrily. 

‘Actually, he called me a slag but he probably meant it in an affectionate, Ray Winstone-y way. Like, ‘You slaaaaag’; that’s practically a Forever Friends moment for Londoners, right?’ says Aramis, but even he's unconvinced. The smiles drop from both his friends' faces and abruptly he feels even worse. 

‘No, no,’ he says, reaching out in his own turn to pat d'Artagnan's face. ‘No, don't do that; you were both so happy a minute ago. It's nothing, really.’

‘Is this about the other night?’ says d'Artagnan, still looking uncharacteristically grim. 

‘What about the other night?’ Aramis says. 

‘What about the other night?’ echoes Constance in tones of horror. 

‘When we were in the Halls’ bar,’ says d'Artagnan, ‘and you were telling us about how much you loved Porthos and,’ he flushes, ‘the things you wanted to do to him and how you were going to propose to him with the ring pull from your can of Stella because you first met when he spilled a pint of Stella down your back.’

‘That is a- a wealth of extraneous details,’ Constance says, her voice unsteady. ‘Please, please tell me that the rest of that evening remained a hopeless blur.’ 

D'Artagnan blinks at her, guilelessly. 

‘Jesus,’ moans Constance. ‘Oh God, why.’ She snatches at the shots still sitting on the bar and downs two in quick succession, then gasps and pounds on her chest. ‘Okay,’ she says, slightly hoarse but resolute. ‘Okay. See, here’s the thing: I was under the impression that you didn't remember anything from that night. I know that because I specifically asked you and you specifically said, No, Constance, I don't remember anything from last night.’ 

Athos clears his throat. ‘You have a boyfriend. And we weren't- I mean, it seemed premature.’ 

‘She's breaking up with Bonacieux,’ Aramis contributes helpfully. ‘Because he's a tool. He didn't even come to see her match today.’

‘And the way you won it with that passatta sotto was gorgeous,’ says Athos, scowling. 

‘I know, right?’ says d'Artagnan. ‘She's amazing.’

‘You watched my match?’ says Constance in disbelief. 

‘Of course,’ says Athos, and they both stare at her as she looks back at them, bewildered, and frankly the triangle of sexual attraction is almost enough to distract Aramis from his own heartbreak but- 

‘What did you mean, is this about the other night?’ he says slowly. 

D'Artagnan tears his gaze away from Constance and Athos with difficulty. ‘What?’ he says, blankly. ‘Oh, the other night when I saw you coming out of Porthos' room and your shirt was inside out and then you went into the kitchen and made out with that packet of bacon.’ 

‘You mean, he actually made it to Porthos' room? Huh,’ says Constance, ‘I would have sworn it was the bacon sandwiches first and predestined love second,’ as Aramis claws at his face pre-emptively, moaning, ‘No, please God, please tell me I didn't sleep with Porthos and then forget it.’ 

‘I don't know about that,’ says d'Artagnan, flushing again, and for a man about to have a whole lot of sex with two of the hottest people Aramis is pleased to call friends, he certainly seems to have a problem talking about it. ‘You were too distracted by the bacon to answer my questions.’ 

‘Oh God,’ says Aramis, sick at heart. How could he have fucked this up so thoroughly before it even began? How could he not even remember- 

His litany of self-loathing and horror is interrupted by the arrival of Treville who looks around their group with interest and announces, ‘Lady and gentlemen, this is the Fencing Soc Annual Formal Dinner and Pub Crawl with Mandatory Shenanigans and Fun. You, however, are making it look like an especially heart-rending episode of Dawson's Creek.’ 

‘Wow,’ says d'Artagnan, ‘way to date yourself, Captain.’ 

‘In fairness,’ says Constance, ‘we should have seen this coming when we elected a postgrad as President. Next he'll be telling us to stay away from jazz and liquor and the men who play for fun.’ 

Athos grins at them both, and Treville blinks at the unprecedented show of amusement and affection before he says, ‘In fact, I am a huge fan of jazz and liquor-‘ 

‘And Armand Richelieu.’

Treville ignores this magnificently and continues, ‘And men, who shall remain nameless, who play for fun. But I am opposed to drama and I can see drama brewing here, my little swashbucklers. So, in the interests of my ongoing sanity, we are going to finish our drinks and move on to the next bar and sing about feelings. It will be awesome and cathartic and most of all it will be convivial because we are the University Musketeers and we stick together, no matter what.’ 

Aramis looks at him miserably and then across at where Porthos is being loudly cheerful with his friends and very obviously not looking back at Aramis.

Treville catches the direction of his gaze, slings an arm over his shoulders and repeats firmly, ‘No matter what. Don't fret so, little d'Herblay, we all know you and Porthos are destined to end up married with two dogs and several fat little sword-fighting babies.’ 

‘Oh my God, have I told everyone about that?’ 

‘Yes,’ says Athos. ‘We have an intervention planned for the end of term.’ 

‘No, we don’t,’ says Constance, frowning at him. ‘We had faith that you and Porthos would work things out.’ 

‘We did?’ D’Artagnan says, frowning back at her. ‘Then why have I spent the last week painting that bloody bann- Aaargh, oh my God, why are your elbows so pointy!’ 

Sipping from one of Constance’s abandoned shots, Treville says, ‘Actually, Porthos told me so. A week after you two first met, I believe.’ 

All of a sudden, Aramis' chest feels like there's a sunrise inside it; he thinks the light must be shining from every part of him. 

Treville grins and pats his chest. ‘Your ridiculous little face, I swear,’ and he claps his hands and says, ‘Right, mes petits canetons, time for karaoke.’ 

With some skill and more bullying, Treville and Essarts manage to pry the entire Fencing Soc out of the bar and into the street. It's bitterly cold out, even with the glow of amity and alcohol surrounding them, so they're all supremely grateful that the karaoke place is only round the corner. Nevertheless, in the short time they're stumbling down the cobbles, loud and happy, both Athos and d'Artagnan manage to get their arms slung around Constance, Athos's fingers wound discreetly into the hair at the nape of d'Artagnan's neck, and Constance looking poleaxed but radiant with possessive, bewildered delight. Aramis is happy for them, truly, but he's ready to be coupled up and content and frequently, shamelessly wanton himself and he’s not sure how much longer he can wait for Porthos to catch up. But even when they've all descended upon the bar and carved out their own little piece of turf, draping coats and scarves and themselves over barstools and booths, Porthos is still being assiduously guarded by Charon and Flea. From the glares and vigorous threatening gestures they make at Aramis whenever their friend isn't looking, he suspects that they are not fans of his. He can't even get near Porthos without one of them making murder eyes at him, and once they manage to coax his intended up to the stage for a singing three-way, Aramis' chances of talking to him seem even more remote. 

Aramis sighs heavily into his beer, and looks over at the booth where Athos, Constance and d'Artagnan are precariously entwined together. It seems unwise to join them at this point in time, although he will totally point out later that sexiling him from a bar table is crass and sordid and he's very proud of them all. Serge drops onto the bar stool next to him, his bulk making it creak ominously. 

‘What ho, little Musketeer,’ he says jovially. ‘Captain sent me over with a suggestion. Weeeeell, it's more of an order, really, but I thought I'd lead in nice and soft, like.’ 

‘What's that, then?’ says Aramis. 

‘Captain says that you're to stop sulking, get up on stage and do the Musketeers proud.’ 

‘I am outraged,’ says Aramis hotly, ‘outraged that he is accusing me of sulking. This is not my sulking face, this is my pensive face, as anyone can tell. If I were sulking, my mouth would go like this, whereas, as you can clearly see, it is attached to this bottle of- what is this? Is this- Jesus, Stella on top of champagne and port and shots. Oh,’ he says mournfully, ‘I am going to pay for this, come the morning. Also, what?’ 

‘You, little d’Herblay, are to proceed to the stage,’ says Serge slowly. ‘Once there, you are to sing the everloving fuck out of the song Treville's chosen for you. You can take the Stella with you, I suppose,’ he adds, ‘Treville didn’t give any orders about that.’

‘Oh Christ Jesus, man, why,’ says Aramis, his voice slipping back into the inflections of his North Wales upbringing in the face of deep inebriation and deeper despair. 

Serge cackles and slaps him on the back so hard Aramis nearly pitches face-first into the bar. 

‘I'm not doing it,’ Aramis declares firmly to the bar-top.

‘Are you disobeying a direct order from your Captain?’ says Serge. ‘Oh, that’s brave. Do you know what happened to the last person who disobeyed a direct order from the Captain?’ 

‘Treville respected his decision and his moxie, and they ended up going out for pancakes?’ Aramis says hopefully. 

‘Oh, my sweet Summer child,’ sighs Serge, and steals Aramis’s beer, drinks half of it in one draught, and then belches like a toad.

‘Ugh,’ says Aramis, ‘that was mine; I stole it fair and square and now you’ve sullied it, and I’m still not going to sing.’ 

‘Yeah?’ says Serge, grinning widely and cracking his knuckles, but just then Aramis hears the karaoke M.C. announce, ‘And now from the Court of Miracles, Flea, Charon and Porthos with a classic from The Foundations,’ - there's a moment of whispered confabulation between Flea and the MC – ‘dedicated to Aramis.’ 

Up on stage, Porthos’ beautiful face crumples into a scowl and he none-too-subtly punches Flea in the kidney before the piano starts and the drums kick in. 

The song should be a kick in the teeth but Aramis actually can't stop beaming all the way through it because Porthos doesn't take his eyes off him once and regardless of what he's singing, Porthos is singing to _him_. Aramis is being _serenaded_. This is the greatest thing that has happened to him ever. Perhaps he hasn't fucked his predestined love up beyond repair. Impulsively, he blows Porthos an extravagant kiss, and Porthos laughs out loud as he flings a hand up to catch it, and Aramis laughs right back at him. 

As the song comes to an end, Serge tuts and slides off his stool. ‘Oh, to be young and in love. Mind, this doesn't let you off; Captain's orders are to be obeyed.’ 

Aramis agrees absently, more preoccupied with how Porthos has leapt off the stage and is now swaggering across the bar, his eyes still locked on Aramis. 

‘Hey,’ he says ultra-casually and steals Aramis' Stella. ‘Probably for the best that I take care of this before you spill it all over some poor bastard.’ 

‘Yeah,’ says Aramis. ‘Because I'm reliably informed that last time I did that, the poor bastard fell in love with me.’ He waits breathlessly for a response. 

‘Bloody Treville,’ Porthos says darkly and he seems to be blushing. 

‘You're not denying it.’ 

‘Aramis,’ says Porthos, hesitantly, ‘I-’ He puts his hand to his chest and says, ‘Listen, we need to-,’ when the karaoke announcer calls Aramis up to the stage. 

‘Oh, shit,’ says Aramis. ‘Porthos, I really, really want to talk to you but just hold that thought, okay? I have to go and humiliate myself for the Musketeers.’ 

Porthos raises an eyebrow at him. 

‘Bloody Treville,’ explains Aramis and vaults off the bar stool. Pausing, he grasps Porthos' hand and presses his lips to its knuckles tenderly, his eyes fixed on Porthos' own. Over in the booth, he can hear Constance and d'Artagnan cooing loudly, and grinning like a pirate, like a drunken and invincible first-year, like a Musketeer, he strides off to the stage to meet his fate.

*****

‘Seriously though,’ says Porthos, grinning, ‘Celine Dion?’

‘Treville picked it,’ Aramis protests and then admits, ‘But it seemed appropriate. Because you know we're heading for something, somewhere I've never beeeeeeen.’ His warbling reprise is met with ironic cheers from the rest of the Musketeers, and he acknowledges them graciously. 

‘No, please,’ begs Porthos holding a hand over his eyes. ‘No more. I'm getting flashbacks.’ 

‘Listen, you arsehole,’ Aramis says, secure in his own awesomeness, ‘I was amazing up there. I brought people to tears while I was telling you that I was your lady and you were my man.’ 

‘Yeah, I saw Athos crying with laughter. I took photos to commemorate the time he had an actual expression.’

Aramis looks at Porthos from under his eyelashes, convinced that if he looks him in the eye, Porthos will know just how helplessly fucked Aramis is when it comes to him, the lengths he’d go to, the eons he’d wait. And then he actually considers those eons, waiting hopefully for just the right moment, for the right words that will unlock the greatness he knows that he and Porthos will be, and always just missing them, hits that never register, and he swallows against that future. God, he doesn’t want to keep running on what ifs and near misses, so he raises his eyes to look Porthos, beautiful, tired-looking, slightly drunk and dishevelled Porthos in the eye, and says, ‘So what do you think?’

‘Of what?’ says Porthos, looking perplexed as he raises the can to his lips. 

‘Of what?’ Aramis exclaims, incredulously. ‘Of my- my declaration!’ 

‘Which declaration would that be, then,’ says Porthos, a little coolly. ‘The one tonight or the rather more explicit one last week? And if you're serious about this, how come you completely blanked me after the other night?’ 

Aramis swallows and despite his burgeoning certainty he feels a little sick. ‘So we did- you know, get together the other night?’ 

‘What? No.’ Porthos looks confused. ‘You were wasted; of course we didn't sleep together. We just,’ and Aramis watches in fascination as a blush darkens Porthos’ face and he lowers his voice, ‘watched _Made in Chelsea_ and cuddled, and when I woke up you were gone, and you didn’t say anything about it so I thought you were just messing about. Do you honestly not remember anything?’ 

‘It’s all a bit of a blank after the first bottle of Lambrini,’ admits Aramis.

‘Oh.’ Porthos looks gutted. ‘No, of course, that makes sense; you were pissed as a newt.’

‘Newts mate for life, though,’ lies Aramis. ‘Like me.’ 

Porthos looks askance at him and says, ‘You fucking liar.’ 

‘Okay, well, no,’ Aramis admits, ‘newts don't actually mate for life. I don't think. Who knows? Who's that invested in newts having sex? I don't care if they’re having poly, genderqueer gangbangs everywhere or get married in St Pauls with a gift registry at Harrods; whatever blows their amphibian skirts up, I say. But I am absolutely and definitely not lying about me: I am down for commitment and monogamy, and blowjobs.’ He looks hopefully at Porthos and wills him to see where this is going.

‘That's- pretty much word for word what you said that night,’ says Porthos. ‘Except for the weird segue about newts.’ 

‘Yeah, that came out of nowhere,’ says Aramis. ‘Did my forgotten spiel about commitment and monogamy and blowjobs have, by any chance, a target?’ 

‘It did,’ confirms Porthos, sliding along the bar, closer to Aramis, who says a little breathlessly, ‘And did I land a hit?’ 

‘A palpable hit,’ says Porthos, sounding equally breathless. ‘I too am down for commitment and monogamy and blowjobs, but not if the person in question then leaves me to make out with a fucking packet of bacon.’ 

‘In fairness,’ says Aramis, almost faint with relief and joy, ‘I had a loving and committed relationship with bacon long before I met you.’ 

‘Yeah, well, you’re an engaged man now,’ says Porthos. ‘You can’t be off slutting it up with every over-processed meat product that crosses your path.’ 

‘I don’t know whether you’re still talking about bacon or Jussac,’ Aramis says, ‘although in all honesty bacon’s a better kisse- Hold up, engaged?’ Embarrassingly, his voice emerges as a squeak, and he has to clear his throat and lower his tone to a deeper and more manly timbre before he repeats, ‘Engaged?’ 

‘Yes, Batman,’ says Porthos, clearly mocking his awesome man tones, and ha, joke’s on him because Aramis is totally going to use this in bed when Porthos least expects it. ‘Unless, you weren’t-’ Porthos hesitates and then reaches for the chain around his neck and draws it out from under his dress shirt. Alongside the crucifix Porthos’ mum gave him when they thought the cancer was going to beat her and his dad’s wedding ring is a new addition, wrapped around and around with Sellotape so that the thin, ragged edges of metal won’t hurt its wearer. The tape distorts it, hides its shape, but Aramis knows in his heart that it’s the ringpull from a can of Stella Artois. 

‘I mean, maybe, it was just a joke though,’ says Porthos, his fingers curling around the tab protectively. 

‘No,’ says Aramis, hoarsely. ‘No, I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. Are you-?’

‘Yeah,’ says Porthos, a smile already beginning to split his face. ‘Yeah, I’m pretty serious, too. Gotta be, right? I mean, predestined love and marriage and having tiny, sword-wielding babies and two dogs is serious business.’ 

‘Oh, Christ Almighty,’ moans Aramis, ‘is there _anything_ I didn’t say that night? But- you’re okay with all that? I mean, I know I can be a bit much. Well, a lot. A lot much. If you just wanted to date at first, I’d understand,’ he says bravely.

‘Can we get a can of Stella over here, please?’ Porthos shouts across to the bar-tender. 

‘Piss off, there's a queue,’ is the friendly rejoinder. 

‘But my future happiness depends upon it,’ Porthos entreats her. 

‘Future happiness built upon shit lager is no happiness whatsoever,’ says a smooth voice behind them. ‘But since it appears to be vital to you, here,’ and Armand Richelieu snags an open can of Stella from their Captain's hand and passes it over. 

‘Thanks, Captain,’ says Porthos, and then less gratefully, ‘Richelieu,’ and he snaps the ringpull off the can and sinks to one knee in front of Aramis who grins down at him. 

‘Aramis,’ Porthos says solemnly, ‘will you marry me and have adorable, sword-wielding babies with me?’ 

‘Porthos,’ says Aramis, ‘I totally will. Now,’ he waves his hand imperiously, ‘give me my ring.’ 

Porthos slides the ring pull carefully onto his finger, making sure it doesn't catch on his skin. He can hear Constance and d’Artagnan and the rest of their ragged band of miscreants cheering raucously in the background, and is also vaguely aware that considerable amounts of money are being handed over between them, and that Serge has taken their impromptu engagement as an opportunity to nonchalantly minesweep their beer. 

‘This is sickening,’ Aramis hears Richelieu say behind them. ‘There's no discipline in your club, Treville. Your Musketeers ruin any drinking establishment with their emotions and their volume and their general lack of decorum. This would never happen in my society.’ 

‘Shut up, Armand,’ Treville says pleasantly, ‘and buy me another Stella, you thieving, romantic fuck,’ but by that point Porthos has bounded to his feet, laughing, and seized Aramis to dip him into a kiss. And in the light of finally, finally kissing Porthos, of his warm lips and clever tongue and the fervent, filthy, loving promises he's making into Aramis's ear, nothing much else really matters.


End file.
